We are the glass that one day shatters,
the flame that burns to ash and scatters,
with no regret, for nothing matters.
The little mouse’s midnight patters
that, drowsy, we a moment hark
will fade forgotten in the dark.
All leave naught behind to mark
the passage; the igniting spark
dims and dies as we burn yet.
Consume, create, die, beget —
the sun of dawn must also set;
none of it matters — have no regret.
Stephen Brooke ©2017
Not my best, certainly, and something of a cliche; intended more as an exercise in form.